


The Long Way Back

by WastingYourGum



Series: The Slow Path [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the events of The Reichenbach Fall:  John is back in London, working as a Doctor, when he finds a homeless and injured Greg Lestrade. Will helping to heal Lestrade also heal their friendship and help him as well?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows immediately on from the events in [Part 1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/445375) so you should probably read that first (it's only 221 words).

John peeled back the blanket covering Lestrade's body. He was met with several bloodstained layers of old jumpers, shirts and t-shirts - and an eye-watering smell.

John had long since stopped letting noxious smells bother him but under the strong aroma of body odour, urine and alcohol was an edge which was a big red warning flag to anyone with medical training.

Lestrade stirred and whimpered like a wounded animal when John tried to move his arm to see the damage. "Gerroff, y'bastard." His eyes flickered open but they were glazed and unfocused.

"It's OK, Greg, it's John Watson. I'm here to help. I need to see where you're hurt."

"Y're not Wa'son. Fuck off." Lestrade snatched his arm away from John's grip.

"And what makes you so sure of that?" John grabbed Lestrade's wrist again and held on a bit tighter.

"John Wa'son... wouldn' piss on me... if I was on fire," Lestrade spat out between laboured breaths.

_From the way you smell you wouldn't notice if I did or not_ , John thought angrily. Aloud, he said, "Well, sorry, it really is me, Greg - and I need to see your side, come on."

Somewhere above them it was a sunny day but precious little light was getting down here, under the soot-blackened Victorian railway arches. John pulled a penlight from his pocket to get a better look at what he was dealing with. He stuck the torch in his mouth, lifted Lestrade's arm out of the way and detached the sticky layers of clothing from Lestrade's skin as gently as he could.

John had only seen Lestrade with his shirt off once before, when Sherlock had spilled something over him at Baker Street. That Lestrade had been sporting an enviable all-over tan from a recent holiday and he'd been in pretty good shape; maybe a little scuffed around the edges and carrying a few extra pounds but not at all bad for a man of his age. This Lestrade's body was pale and his skin was in terrible condition; greasy and spotted from lack of hygiene and covered in myriad small nicks, cuts and bruises. His ribs were far more pronounced, showing significant weight loss, and just below them on his left side...

_Bugger... Thought so..._

The wound was a long, ugly, oozing red stripe. It wasn't a deep cut - his attacker must have just caught him a glancing blow - but it was definitely infected, as John had suspected from the smell. He grabbed a few supplies from his bag and cleaned and covered the wound as best he could.

Lestrade mumbled and groaned as John worked but still showed no signs of recognising him - whether through drink or delirium, John couldn't tell.

Right - that was immediate first aid out of the way, now what? John looked around. The girl that had brought him here had vanished. The other cardboard hovels may have people in them but he couldn't waste time looking - and they may not be friendly.

He pulled his phone out - no signal. _Perfect_... "Greg? Greg - I'm going to go a little way out of here so I can call an ambulance and--"

"No!" Lestrade's hand shot out and gripped John's wrist with surprising strength. "No - no ambulance. 'm fine. Don't need one."

"Greg..."

"No hospital. Can't... Can't go t' hospital." Lestrade let go of John's arm and started trying to get up. "Cant... Can't go..."

"OK! OK... No ambulance."

Lestrade had made it to his feet but he wobbled unsteadily then slumped against the wall. John had to dart forward and support him under his arm to stop him falling.

_Stupid stubborn bastard... Alright. No hospital - but I can't leave him here.. Could take him... Shit! Where can I take him?_

"Hoi! You alright, mate?"

John looked round. A taxi had pulled up at the end of the underpass, its yellow light shining out in the gloom like a beacon. 

John tightened his grip around Lestrade's waist and half-walked, half-dragged him over to the cab.

The driver was a huge, thick-necked slab of a man in a white polo-shirt with the Spurs logo.

"Yeah, I mean no - my... my friend here... He's not well. I need to get him..."

"Your friend?" the cabbie interrupted, skeptically eyeing up Lestrade's clothes and appearance. "Here - e's not gonna puke, is 'e?"

"No, he's not, Look he's my... my patient. I'm a doctor and I--"

Lestrade's head jerked up. "No doctors! No 'spital..." He tried to pull away from John's grip.

"No, Greg. Greg - it's OK. I'm not taking you to hospital." John wrestled to keep hold of him and stop him injuring himself further. He shot what he hoped was a suitably pleading look at the cabbie. "Please. I just need to take him someplace he can get cleaned up and sleep it off."

The cabbie gave them both a long hard look over before he nodded.

John sighed in relief as he heard the door locks disengage. He opened the door and pushed Lestrade in, quickly climbing up after him.

"Your place then?" the cabbie said.

"...Yes, I suppose so." John ducked under Lestrade's wildly flailing arm. "Greg - for fuck's sake, sit still! I'm trying to help, you daft bastard."

Fortunately as the cab pulled away Lestrade's head bumped off the window hard enough to stun him for a few vital seconds. John managed to get his arms wrapped around Lestrade's and held on tight. He gagged at the smell of Lestrade's clothes.

"Jesus, Greg, you stink."

"Yeah, I know." Lestrade slumped in his seat as all the fight suddenly left him. His voice was small and lost; almost child-like. "Can't get clean... Can't get warm... Can't get it right... Could never get it ri..." His head fell forward.

John relaxed his grip and tipped Lestrade's body backwards, sliding his arm out from behind Lestrade's back. He caught Lestrade's head and gently lowered it to loll against the back of the seat, then checked Lestrade's pulse, pupils and his breathing - he was fine, just completely out of it.

"You sure you don't want the 'ospital, mate?"

John looked up and met the cabbie's concerned stare in the rear-view mirror.

"No, thanks. He'll be OK - like I said, he just needs to sleep it off."

The driver shrugged and turned his attention back to the road.

John turned his attention back to Lestrade. The former policeman was now sound asleep and drooling onto his own shoulder.

John watched him, trying to reconcile the mess in front of him with the man he'd known.

He realised with a pang that he knew nothing of what had happened after... After. He'd seen how Mrs Hudson had been - it had been one of the things that made him decide to leave Baker Street - and God, he really should look in on her again, if she was even still alive... - but he'd been so locked up in his own grief he'd shut the rest of the world out. Of course others would have been affected, Lestrade probably most of all.

He must have lost his job, probably been offered up as the Met's sacrificial scapegoat to the press and public. If he'd left under a cloud like that then another job would have been hard to get. No job meant no money, no money meant no home, and no home meant you ended up sleeping in a cardboard box under a bridge drinking anything you could lay your hands on to try to take the pain away... John knew several Army mates who'd gone the same way and knew he'd come perilously close to it himself before he met...

Before.

Lestrade snorted and wiped a filthy sleeve across his mouth but he didn't wake up. He mumbled something that sounded like "couldn't find the gun" but it might have been "couldn't fire the gun" - John couldn't make it out clearly. 

Jesus, surely he hadn't tried to...?

"'Ere we are, Doc."

The taxi pulled to a stop and John noticed they were outside the front door of his block of flats.

"You need a hand with him?" the cabbie asked.

"Could you? I'd really appreciate it."

Between them they hauled Lestrade out of the cab and propped him sitting up against the front door. He was semi-awake again but still showing no awareness of his surroundings.

John pulled out his wallet. "I've got it from here, thanks. How much do I owe you?"

"Forget it mate. On the 'ouse." The driver tapped his nose and winked conspiratorially. "Or should I say... on the 'olmes, eh?"

"What?"

"Took me a bit to recognise you but I got there in the end. We don't forget him, Doc. Not the ones 'e 'elped. You keep your money - and I hope your mate 'ere is OK."

John suddenly found it hard to speak past the lump in his throat. "Thank you. Really, thank you."

He dragged Lestrade upright - "Come on, Greg" - and pushed through the front door, heading towards the lift.

* * *

 

The taxi driver folded himself back into the front seat and picked up his mobile phone.

The expected voice answered immediately. "Hello?"

"Palmer here, sir," the cabbie replied. All traces of his accent had vanished in favour of one with far more education. "They're both inside."

"Good - and the prognosis?"

"I would agree with Watson's assessment. The injury is not life-threatening if the infection can be contained."

"Thank you. Oh and Palmer? Please be more careful next time and wait until you're actually _given_ an address before driving to it, would you?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes. Sorry."

"That's all."

Several miles away Mycroft Holmes hung up the call and dialled another number on a different phone.

"Sherlock? Lestrade is now at Doctor Watson's house. He should be fine. Have you determined Moran's whereabouts yet? ...I see...Goodbye, then."

Mycroft put the second phone back in his jacket, sent a quick note to Anthea to arrange for Doctor Watson's request for a leave of absence to be granted as soon as it was submitted and went back to less personal, if not less important, matters...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you _so much_ to everybody who's commented and gently prodded me for more - and sorry it's taken so long. My Muse is a very infrequent visitor these days but fortunately I managed to catch her long enough while she felt like giving me more of this... 
> 
> As with all my other WIPS I _promise_ I will never abandon something without saying so. If It's unfinished then you may have to wait a while but I will get back to it.... eventually.

John staggered through his front door with Greg hanging off him. Thankfully Greg was at least conscious enough to stand, albeit with assistance; John wouldn't have fancied having to carry him if he'd completely passed out.

John kicked the door shut behind them then leaned back and let Greg slowly slide down it until he was sitting propped up in the corner of the hall.

"Right - you wait there. I need to get some stuff sorted," John told him.

John grabbed two buckets and a long roll of black plastic bin bags from the cupboard under the sink in the kitchen. He stopped by the airing cupboard to dig out the oldest, most worn fitted sheet and blanket he could find and headed into the flat's single bedroom. After he stripped the bed he started laying the bin bags across the mattress in horizontal strips, duct-taping them to the base, until the whole bed was covered.

The bed ended up looking like something out of some kinky video but John was all too familiar with what the next few days would hold. He never thought he may end up grateful to Harry for the past experience but it was proving invaluable now.

He finished by stretching the fitted sheet over the bed, across the improvised plastic sheeting then took a few more bags off the roll, shook them open and left them beside the bed before returning to his guest.

He lifted Greg to his feet again, shuffled with him into the bedroom and laid him down onto the bed.

Now came the fun part...

Jacket, jumper, sweatshirt, something that might once have been a shirt and a couple of thin t-shirts all gradually peeled off and dropped into waiting bin bags. He wasn't going to chuck them - they were all Greg had and who knew what he had hidden in the pockets - but neither was he going to let them anywhere near any of his things.

John was braced for Greg to turn aggressive at any minute but so far, so good. He was quite pliant and unresisting, even when it came to undressing his lower half. He just sprawled back onto the bed as John took off his shoes and socks, unbuckled his trousers, pulled them off and dropped them in another bag.

Now he could see him better John decided that while Greg was grubby, he wasn't totally filthy and there probably wouldn't be much harm in letting him wait until he was in a fit state to wash himself. Stripping off his pants and giving him a bed bath was definitely going above and beyond the call of duty. Friendship - or rather, former friendship - would only get you so far. John would clean the area around his wound but that was it.

Besides, there was little point in cleaning him up now _before_ the detox. If his past sessions with Harry were any indication, Greg was going to be a sweaty mess for the next few days and he'd probably end up wearing any food John fed him or bringing it up again not long after. He'd have to find him some clothes to wear he didn't mind losing.

John threw the blanket over Greg's figure, tied the bin bags closed in a belated attempt to lessen the smell and went to get some more antiseptic and dressings…

* * *

 

Greg forced his eyes open and blinked a few times through the thick gummy feeling of his eyelashes.

Bedroom...

_Unfamiliar_ bedroom...

Not the first time that had happened.

Felt like he was only wearing his pants…

He smiled wryly to himself. Not the first time _that_ had happened either.

It hadn't taken too many cold nights to convince him that trading a bit of physical intimacy for somewhere warm to sleep might not be great for the ego but did wonders for keeping you alive.

Of course it was currently summer so the cold weather excuse didn't really cut it, but a bed was always welcome. Would be nice to know whose bed though. Probably a bloke's judging by the decor. So what had he done for this bloke to earn the bed?

Didn't feel like he'd been buggered... but his side was bloody sore. He glanced down.

_Shit_.

The wound wasn't the problem - he'd had worse - but the professionally applied dressing suggested he'd been somewhere they would have asked for his name. He could only hope whoever had been with him at the time hadn't known it or had given the alias he'd been using.

But how had he ended up here? Good Samaritan - or something more sinister?

The door handle swung down and the door slowly opened…

...to admit Dr John H _bloody_ Watson carrying a tray with what looked like a bowl of tomato soup and a couple of slices of bread on it.

Greg was relieved and horrified and angry and embarrassed all at once. His stomach lurched about uncertainly until it decided it would rather be empty. Now.

He threw himself over the side of the bed, clutched at the bucket sitting there and retched into it.

"And good morning to you too," John said.

Greg spat into the bucket and lifted his head. "What the fuck am I doing here?"

"Puking - and hopefully not dying of sepsis. You're welcome."

Greg rolled over slowly onto his back and pulled the blanket back up over his body. He touched his fingers to his side, gently prodding the gash under the dressing. He had brief flashes of a young man with spiky blond hair and a white hoodie. "I think… There was a yob, with a knife…"

"Mm, could have been worse - looks like he only caught you in passing. Why was he trying to stab you anyway?"

Greg sighed. Good question. He tried to recall what had happened. "He was...There was a group of them, three or four… Came down to look for someone to beat up for fun."

John's eyes widened. "Jesus. Does that happen a lot?"

"Enough."

"And they picked on you?"

"Naah, little shits wouldn't want anything even remotely like a fair fight. They went for Mac - little old Scottish bloke, about five foot nothing."

John gave him a look Greg was more used to seeing him direct at… somebody else. "Let me guess - you decided to even the odds…"

"Never did learn when to keep well out of it."

"And one of them pulled a knife and took a swing at you?"

"Yeah, got him a good one back with a bit of two by four though and him and his mates decided to clear off."

"Leaving you with a nasty cut. Why didn't you get it seen to?"

"Didn't think it was that bad."

"It's not, but you let it get infected, which was pretty stupid."

"Yeah well, my cardboard box doesn't come with a fucking en-suite and a first aid kit, does it?" Greg snapped.

"Any hospital A&E would have been able to--"

"Any hospital A&E would have asked a lot of bloody awkward questions and I would probably have ended up talking to some people who used to have to call me 'Sir'." Greg sat up so he could yell at John properly. His side throbbed and he took several deep breaths as he lay back down again.

John's gaze dropped to the surface of the soup. His teeth ground together but he didn't say anything.

Greg sighed. He hadn't really meant to reveal that much of himself. John always had been far too easy to talk to. He carried on before John could say anything.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm being an ungrateful sod. Thanks for patching me up. Gimme my clothes and I'll get out of your hair."

John's head snapped up. "Yeah, that? That's not going to happen," he replied.

"What?"

"I might have patched you up but you still need to take care of that cut - and since, as you pointed out, your current accommodation is short of facilities, you're staying here until it's better, which will be at least a couple of days."

Greg opened his mouth but John steamrollered on. "That will also give you time to sober up and get a few decent meals inside you."

"I don't need your help, John."

"Man with the antibiotics, soup and your trousers says otherwise."

"Keeping me here against my will--"

"Might technically be illegal but it's for your own good and it's not like you can arrest me now, is it?"

Greg stomach heaved again. Nothing tasted worse than bitter truths. He hung his head over the side of the bed and spat some more bile into the bucket.

John sat down beside him. "I'm sorry, that was a low blow," he said.

"Just give me the fucking soup."

John set the tray down beside Greg on the bed. "I need to go find you a t-shirt to wear and… maybe some trackie bottoms." He left the room.

Greg lifted his head and looked at the steam gently rising from the bowl.

It did look good - and he was starving. If he was lucky he may even be able to keep some of it down.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled the blanket across his shoulders and reached for the spoon…


End file.
